


Rewrites

by geoclaire



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Daydreams, F/F, NSFW, because you know other people do it in their heads too, rewriting history is fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoclaire/pseuds/geoclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla reimagines the night the dimwit squad took her captive. It goes a little differently in her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewrites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shesjustweird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesjustweird/gifts).



You reimagine that night, sometimes.

How it would have panned out, that night, if it hadn’t been a poorly planned but well executed trap. How you would have slid closer, smiling, the ends of your fingers tingling. How you would have pursued what had seemed to be a new softness in Laura, would have chased down and held the new light in her eyes.

(Not, at all, how she might have become just another virgin sacrifice, a girl you bedded and handed over to maman. Even then, you think you knew it wouldn’t end like that.

You’d have snatched her away, for her sake or your own, before you let that happen.)

You imagine pulling her to you, the smoothness of that long caress of her hair. This time, she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t reach for her phone, but turns to you with those huge eyes. This time, they’re open with arousal, lust, and not nervous fear.

You’d have pulled her into your lap, nervous Laura Hollis with her huge eyes. And you’d have teased her with kisses, touching the point of her jaw, her cheekbone, her eyebrow, with your lips and your eyelashes.

By this stage, you’d have gotten a glass or two of excellent champagne into her. No more. Enough to tone down her average level of nervous twitch, but certainly not enough to influence her. No. That was never what you’d wanted, no form of coercion, vampiric or otherwise. You’d wanted her to actually want you.

(That had, of course, been your downfall.)

When she’d squirmed, wound up and aroused from your teasing, that would be when you’d kiss her. Slow at first, almost coaxing, but by then you like to think she’d want it. And it would turn hot and wet and slick, quickly frantic. She’d clutch at the back of your neck, hands clinging for a collar that wasn’t there, before holding onto your warm skin. You’d put your hands on her thighs, her ass, and shift her closer on your lap.

The Laura you imagine isn’t a virgin, or perhaps she just isn’t shy, because she kisses you back, slick mouth and flicking tongue, in a way that makes you wet. And she doesn’t complain when you twist at the waist and place her, awkward dress catching on her thighs, against your pillows. No. The Laura Hollis you imagine is lithe and sinuous and welcoming-warm beneath you on the bed.

Perhaps she slides her hands into the back of your corset, pulling you closer. Perhaps she has one hand on your ass, pulling you down to grind against her thigh with another open mouthed kiss. The Laura Hollis you imagine doesn’t resist when you prise her knees apart with long fingers and slide the hem of her ridiculous dress up the inside of her thigh.

And gasps and clutches at you when you begin to finger her though her light cotton panties -

“Carm? What are you doing?”

You twitch, coming back to yourself. “Uh - nothing. Nothing, cupcake.”

She eyes you with disbelief, her shopping bag of cookies and soda limp by her side. “Uh-huh. What you been thinking about?”

You relax back against your pillows. This, you can answer. “The night you and the dimwits tied me up,” you say, making it sound as dirty as possible.

You expect her to squirm, at the reminder or at your tone. Instead, she’s looking at where your hand is placed on your inner thigh.

Damn. At least your pants are still buttoned, though.

“What about that night?” she asks, and her voice is breathy in a way that you’ve only recently realised makes you absolutely crazy.

“An alternate ending,” you say, and gesture her to you.

She drops the bag onto her chair in a heartbeat and comes, giggling, to kneel beside you on the bed.

Who the hell needs to rewrite history? This ending is better.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Popping out of the OB fandom briefly to knock this one out. I mayyy do more Carmilla fic if there's an audience.
> 
> Comments are love, please leave them.


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